


Draw The Sea

by HannahJane



Series: The Hand of the Goddess [5]
Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Fusion, Gen, Goddess, Irish Mythology - Freeform, Not Canon Compliant, OFC - Freeform, Some violent imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 03:07:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahJane/pseuds/HannahJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sean's actions in "Lonelyhearts" did not exactly endear him to the Goddess of War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Draw The Sea

It was the sudden rush of power, filling him, damn near drowning him with its intensity that alerted Sean to his non-human visitor. Sheer willpower kept him from reacting, kept him from pushing his chair back and dropping to his knees again. This was his precinct, damnit! Goddess or no goddess, he was not subjugating himself in the heart of his very own territory. Deliberately finishing his signature with a flourish, Sean placed his pen to the side of the report and looked up, folding his hands on the desk in front of him. The sight that greeted him was not the one he had been expecting.

 

Morgan stood before him, arms crossing her chest, dried blood smeared across her cheek and down her arms. Sean did not doubt that it belonged to someone else, someone who was probably missing a limb or two. The goddess wore a torn black t-shirt rent across the front by what looked like claws, jeans stiff with blood, and scuffed boots. She brought with her the smell of heat and clashing steel and he could only imagine where she had come from.

 

"You did not kill the _hässlich_." The lack of inflection in her voice made it even more of an accusation. Sean didn't move, just watched her, waiting. Morgan didn't expand on her statement, silence taking the place of words, ideally saying more than those unspoken words could express. It was the first time that he had seen her since that day more than a week ago when he had knelt in the mud before her, pledging his protection to Nick Burkhardt. The reaction from Adalind was still ringing shrilly in his ears, sharp and French. Even his uncle had broken the long-standing silence between them to send a letter of calligraphy-scrawled disdain at the news that Sean had willingly tied himself to a member of the _Tuatha Dé Dannan_ , and for a Grimm of all people. There weren't enough curlicues in the world to disguise the utter disgust in his uncle's carefully chosen words.

 

 _The Renard line does not subjugate themselves to the Tuatha Dé Dannan, nephew. We may ally ourselves with them at times, but we are no more their pets than they are our masters._ Sean remembered every handwritten line, scolded like the child he no longer was. He'd balled it up in his fist, staring out the window of his penthouse apartment, wanting to rend something more satisfying than a piece of scented stationary. How fortuitous for him that a Reaper had appeared in Portland, seeking revenge against the Grimm. The feel of the scythe in his hands had been far more satisfying than the act of tearing his uncle's letter into strips to be tossed into the fireplace.

 

Morgan hadn't moved, an act simultaneously unnerving and impressive. However, a staring contest with a temperamental Goddess was not on Sean's list of things to accomplish for the day and so he broke eye contact, shuffling the papers on the desk before him. He did not regret his decision of how to deal with the Reaper, if anything this latest case with the _ziegvolk_ enforced it. Burkhardt was an unintentional menace, just coming into his Grimm-ness and would continue to be until he gained full control of his abilities or used common sense, whichever came first. The thought grated, but Sean had the feeling that he would end up removing many more body parts before he could be confident that the Grimm could protect himself. Tearing him from his thoughts, a blood and dirt smeared hand appeared before his eyes, slapping down the papers in his hand, pinning them to the desk. Sean looked up into brilliant green eyes, highlighted by a brown-red smear of dried blood on the temple, eyes that carried the unspoken message of 'do not test my patience'.

 

"You left him alive." Morgan said, eyebrow lifting a scant centimeter as if expecting a response to her not-question. A few flakes of dried blood broke loose with the movement of her skin, drifting down like macabre snow onto his desk. Sean released the papers that she had pinned, knowing he would have to reprint them and sign them all over again after she left.

 

"I did." Sean responded and she withdrew her hand. Morgan managed to look beautiful even when she should have looked like a horror movie extra. An expression – gone too quickly for him to catalogue – flitted across her face and she turned her back to him, looking out over the empty bullpen beyond the lights of his office. He realized then that her dark hair had been bound tightly into a thick knot at the back of her head and what he had initially thought were the ceiling lights glinting off her hair were actually pieces of glass.

 

"Did-" the single word escaped his mouth before he could snatch it back and the goddess turned back to him expectantly. Of the two times Sean had been in the goddess's presence, he had found that his control over his tongue was not as good as it could have been. The battle over whether or not to ask her was quick, a few words exchanged between his better angels and inner demons. He vaguely gestured in her direction.

 

"Did you fall through a window?" Morgan blinked as if legitimately surprised by his question and then looked down at herself, seeming to notice the blood and dirt for the first time. Sean felt like an idiot for asking, but he had the impression that most of the time the goddess was not aware of her appearance. This time the expression on her face was easy to read.

 

Irritation.

 

"Nicholas is not my only charge," she said and this time it was Sean's turn to be surprised. He hadn't been expecting an explanation, didn't think there needed to be one. "This is the result of two brothers who find it necessary to try my patience on a daily basis as well." She brushed ineffectually at the dirt on her shirt, only succeeding in widening in the tear that ended just below the curve of her breast. Sean politely raised his gaze to her face. Morgan ceased with the attempts to clean herself up and turned her attention back to him, one hand raised as if in silent inquiry to continue the conversation that they had not been having. Sean knew exactly what she was asking.

 

"I let the Reaper live. It is a choice I would make again." Sean said calmly, glad for whatever inner well of courage that always emerged inside him when confronted with this particular goddess. He did not like explaining himself to her but he could understand her need to comprehend. It was the same one he had when Burkhardt and Griffin refused to wait for backup. To his immense surprise, Morgan dropped into one of the visitor chairs across from his desk, slouching low like a rebellious teenager. If anyone had come into his office right then, they would have assumed he was lecturing a juvenile delinquent.

 

"You left a threat alive." Morgan said, her tone similar to that of a professor lecturing an inept pupil. Sean bristled, scowling and Morgan smiled, more teeth than humor.

 

"I left a messenger alive." Sean retorted, brushing a piece of dried dirt off Sgt. Wu's crime scene inventory, succeeding only in smearing it across the form. He sighed and put it aside, focusing his attention on Morgan who looked relaxed considering the extremely uncomfortable chair she was sitting in.

 

"You believe a severed ear is going to scare the _Verrat_?" Morgan's voice slid towards condescension. "You wounded a foot soldier. At best, you've mildly annoyed them. At least cut off an actual limb next time." No words came to mind. How did one respond to the sarcasm of a goddess? Sean stared at her, blood-soaked and dusty, lazing in his office chair and wondered if he was dreaming this entire encounter. Then his gaze landed on the stack of paperwork beside his computer monitor and knew this was reality. His dreams never held that much paperwork. In his dreams, someone else did the paperwork.

 

"It was a pointed gesture," Sean finally said, grasping for the words and clinging tightly to them. Morgan picked something still-wet and stringy off the leg of her jeans and tossed it into the garbage can by his desk. Sean tried not to sigh.

 

"A pointed gesture suggests that you ran the _hässlich_ through with a sword and sent the _Verrat_ his intestines in a gift bag. Since I know you did not, I would consider the entire endeavor a failure." Morgan said, picking at something else on her pants. Sean wondered at what point his day had wandered into the surreal, discussing political tactics with a goddess.

 

"What does the Goddess of War know about political maneuvering?" once again the words escaped before he could stop them. He had never had this problem before the deity had entered his life. Morgan paused in her grooming and arched an eyebrow at him. He was almost sure he imagined the corner of her mouth twitching because he refused to be a source of amusement, refused to be her toy.

 

Opening her mouth as if she was about to reply, Morgan's head cocked to the side with such suddenness that Sean felt he was watching a bird. Her mouth closed, thinned out and her eyes went distant as if she was listening to something from very far away. Suddenly her eyes flicked to him, fiery and green and hungry.

 

"A matter elsewhere requires my attention. Goodbye, _tywysog_." And with that, she was gone, leaving Sean with an office that smelled like war and blood. He let out the breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding and slumped a little in his chair, bringing his hands up to rub at the headache that had suddenly sprung to life in his temples.

 

The Renard family had a long storied history as a favorite of the European gods, gifted with abilities and spells and protection for as long as Sean could remember and even before then. He remembered being very young, sitting in the library of his uncle's house, one of the massive leather bound books from the shelves open across his little legs while beside him, his brother lectured him about all the gods and goddesses that had ties to their family. Eric had proudly pointed out which gods had personally claimed affection for him and Sean had looked forward to the day when he too would garner attention from such powerful entities. Exile had come first and now the only deity he had any connection to was an dangerously violent and possibly psychotic war goddess who was _persona non grata_ among her own pantheon. An old prayer that his mother used to whisper over his head each night sprang to mind.

 

"From ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord, deliver us." Sean muttered in French and with a shake of his head, he went back to the now bloodstained paperwork.

 

From the shadows of the squad room, Morgan leaned against the joint desks of Nicholas and his partner and watched the Prince of Portland work in the glow of his office, her face drawn into a thoughtful expression.

**Author's Note:**

> Tywysog- Irish word for Prince.
> 
>  
> 
> The title of the story is from a Tennyson poem "Ask Me No More".


End file.
